Writing is writing whether done for duty, profit, or fun.

Posts tagged “Poetry”

Once I gave a girl a copy of Pablo Neruda’s love poems. Call me the pretentious Latinx college student wanting to impress the girl.* Truth is, I never read the book. Never read anything by Neruda until a few years later when I purchased a copy of The Poetry of Pablo Neruda on a whim. Wasn’t too long until I discovered a poem that just resonated with me (and still does to this day). There’s a certain romanticism and magic realism that marks a Neruda poem, which Pam Muñoz Ryan captures in her juvenile novel, The Dreamer. Peppered with the illustrations of Peter Sís, the novel follows young Neftalí as he tries to find his place in the world. His imagination is fueled by…

Nothing dull ever happens at [redacted] even though most days pass at a slug’s pace. Friday, however. Man, fucking Friday. We often joke that life at [redacted] could fuel a television series for years—I imagine a cross between Seinfeld and The Office (UK or USA). And if our work life were a TV show, it goes without saying that Friday was the cliffhanger season finale. Maybe, one day, in the distant future.

Back in February, I started thinking about writing again. Something other than this blog and press releases for work. I’ve written a poem here and there. Nothing major. Just lines on the page that I hope will grow into something more. Of course, this gets me thinking about returning to college for an MFA in creative writing. It’s a thought that’s popped up several times in the past, but my bank account just doesn’t see it in the cards. Besides, there’s my relationship with Shaun that can be affected. My time is already divided between work and him with a splash of social life here and there. Throwing school into the mix will just place more responsibilities in the way. And right now, I’m trying to figure some shit out.

Then there’s the whole rust factor. This December marks the ten year anniversary of my college graduation. And all I have to show for it is a couple of press releases published in a weekly that doesn’t even hold my byline, one short story published in a college literary magazine, an essay published in a newsletter, this blog that only a few strangers read, and a job at [redacted] that becomes uncertain as the days go by. I’m not complaining. Not really. But something needs to give, right?

And, again, the realization sets in—all I do is complain about it. Complain about this stagnation. No one told me to stop writing. I chose to. No one told me to stop going to poetry readings. I sheltered myself. No one told me not to spend time on reading old works for revision purposes. I hid them away. I created the creative block—this Trumpian wall—in my mind to hinder myself. I don’t need a muse—shit, I wrote volumes of work before Jeanna. Before I even got laid in high school. And, yes, inspiration is nice; it’s just no one said it had to be romantic. Shaun inspires me every day to do things. I’ve painted more since he’s been around than I have in the years prior. I’m not good at it, but that doesn’t matter. I still do it.

Writing has always been my thing. As has storytelling. In elementary, I penned my The Munsters/The Addams Family-esque short story about a haunted house in which a family of weirdos lived. In high school, countless of compositions books went filled (and unfilled) with bad poetry. (I still have several of these, but I’m too afraid to even open them.)

It seems the trouble, lately, is getting started. That’s where the outline comes into play. In the past, I stood firmly against the outline. Writing should be a wild ride, a road trip without a planned destination. For instance, at the beginning of this post? No idea that I’d end up here. Just look at the intro paragraph. And I’ll by no means change it because that would mean changing this paragraph and I’m already done with this paragraph.

Will the outline help me? Who knows. But I’m willing to try anything. Either way, even with a road map, writing will still remain a wild, wild ride. It’s just that now I have an inkling of where I want to get to.

Facebook Status Update: April 12, 2017 at 12:11 am It’s been too long I think. Maybe it’s time I just put myself out there. Heh. We’ll see. It’s not too cryptic; it gets to the point. I’ve isolated myself for far too long, and I’m beginning to feel the urge again. You know the urge. I’m sure we all get some form of the urge at some point. The incredible itch that cannot be scratched. At least not scratched alone. But in the last few months, I’ve allowed my walls to crumble. And exposing my raw, emotional self to a live audience left me yearning for more. Whenever someone asked me if I write, I talked in past tense. I wrote. I performed in front of…

“Shyness”

I scarcely knew, by myself, that I existed,
that I'd be able to be, and go on being.
I was afraid of that, of life itself.
I didn't want to be seen,
I didn't want my existence to be known.
I became pallid, thin, and absentminded.
I didn't want to speak so that nobody
would recognize my voice, I didn't want
to see so that nobody would see me.
Walking, I pressed myself against the wall
like a shadow slipping away.
I would have dressed myself in red roof tiles, in smoke,
to continue there, but invisible,
to attend everything, but at a distance,
to keep my own obscure identity
fastened to the rhythm of the spring.
A girl's face, the pure surprise
of a laugh dividing the day in two
like the two hemispheres of an orange,
and I shifted to another street,
unnerved by life and tentative,
close to water without tasting its coolness,
close to fire without kissing its flame,
and a mask of pride encased me,
and I was thin and arrogant as a spear,
unlistening, unlistened to
(I made that impossible),
my lament
buried deep
like the whine of a hurt dog
at the bottom of a well.
--Pablo Neruda, from The Poetry of Pablo Neruda

This day marks the death of innocence
where will their love go to extinguish
emptiness fills the vacant chambers in their chests
where once hope crafted smiles
with the raw materials of their wishful thinking

Thought I’d write a quick post before I head off into the bowels of my bedroom and tidy up—I’m a borderline hoarder, though I’m sure I mentioned this in the past. Wish I could say some traumatic event caused my need to “collect” stuff, but no. Since I can remember I just kept things even when I had no use for them. Case in point: tucked away in my closet was a box of knick-knacks from my relationship with Jessica—this included a Bart Simpson candy cane that melted with the head and coated almost everything inside. I also found a high school binder—that’s correct, high school—with homework I failed to turn in (no big surprise there).

I finally manage to apply for healthcare—having given up on the website months ago—via telephone. Blue Cross Blue Shield for my medical stuff and Humana for my dental. I’ll only be paying less than a $100 for both. Now, what struck me as important for the health insurance was the coverage in mental behavioral issues. Finally conceding that my problems are more than I can handle myself, I want to seek help. And, for the first time, I am willing to throw a pill at it in hopes to correct the imbalance inside.

Hoping that I’d garner some support, the two people I mentioned this to replied in this way, “I like you just fine [the way you are],” and, “I think it’s all in your head. You’re just fine.” Leaving me wondering why people are so against me getting help for something that clearly exists.

And, lastly, inspired to write poetry again (it took a lot out of me to write one poem for the Love & Chocolate reading), I picked up two books in the craft and reading and understanding creative medium: A Poetry Handbook by Mary Oliver and Mary Kinzie’s A Poet’s Guide to Poetry, 2nd Edition. Along with this quasi new venture, I have to darker projects in the horizons. A 90-Day Jane-esque blogging project (either on WordPress or Tumblr as I’ve pretty much divorced myself from Blogger) and a story based on actual, recent events in my so-called love life.

[Addendum]: WordPress just sent me a notification that my blog is officially 4 years old now.